


To Be an Awkward Teen

by Beewachan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi Keiji is weird, Gradually falling in love, M/M, Slow Burn, at least I think it is lmao, attempts at humor, crushing and dealing with it, um being a teen is awkward and low-key sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-26 09:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beewachan/pseuds/Beewachan
Summary: At nationals, Akaashi Keiji asks a familiar stranger for his signature, and soon enough, the signee is no longer a stranger.a glimpse:“Can I have an autograph before you become famous?” Keiji blurts again, and oh, god, he’s tying his own noose after this.“Dude, no,” Atsumu gives him a confused look. “I don’t even have a pen. Or paper.”“I have one.” Keiji pulls out a silver sharpie. Damn it, Koutarou must’ve stolen his pen and replaced it with his bus-seat-owl-doodling tool. Well, the doodling tool is close enough.“What about the paper?”Paper is something Akaashi Keiji does not carry in his pocket. “I think you should give me your jacket.”





	To Be an Awkward Teen

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for clicking on this and thanks ao3 user @post_mortem / twitter user @hua_tm for editing this

    Keiji knew he shouldn’t have gone to the bathroom alone after Fukurodani’s first match. He knew it would be awkward. There’d be kids crying, and everyone would either be jumping for joy in the corridor or drying their tears in the bathroom mirror, and Keiji’s just _such a humanist_ , and it always tugs at his empathetic little heart strings when he sees the losers weeping, _especially the inexperienced first years_. He can’t help but imagine their first taste of nationals-heartbreak.

 

    The corridor is empty save for one bleach-blond boy exiting the bathroom, and Keiji tries to quiet his footsteps when he sees the boy come out about eight meters away, walking in the opposite direction Keiji is.

 

    They’re getting closer. Keiji makes out that he’s still wearing his Inarizaki jersey and shorts. Now, Keiji is reminded that during volleyball tournaments, Keiji’s gay heart is, if anything, a weakness. Particularly when he sees Inarizaki’s number seven who looks incredibly… _cute_.

 

    And sad.

 

     _Don’t say it, Keiji, don’t you fucking say it._

 

    “Did you cry?” Keiji blurts, immediately hating himself afterward.

 

    “No!” Atsumu swipes his hand across his red eyes. “Who even are you?” He sasses.

 

    “Akaashi Keiji.” Keiji bows and everything. “Pleased to meet you!” He holds out his hand to shake.

 

    Atsumu glances around as if he can’t be seen shaking hands with Keiji before he places his palm in Keiji’s. “Miya Atsumu.”

 

    Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu, _Miya Atsumu_ , Keiji says his name more slowly in his head each time. It’s familiar. Of course he heard it over the loudspeaker when Karasuno and Inarizaki were playing because, hello, Miya Atsumu is on Inarizaki’s starting team, but it’s more familiar than that.

 

    That’s it! Miya Atsumu is a starting player on the second seed team because he’s very, _very_ good, and because he’s very, _very_ good, he must be amazing. In fact, he’s the most amazing high school volleyball setter there is. El número uno. The absolute best. The top of the top. According to _Volleyball Weekly_ , anyway.

 

    Realizing that he’s encountered someone who is more or less famous in Keiji’s microcosmic world, Keiji resists the urge to gulp, and his hands pick up a sweat. “Hi, Miya Atsumu.”

 

    “Hi, Akaashi Keiji,” Atsumu’s voice is a bit mocking, but it isn’t unfriendly.

 

    “Can I have an autograph before you become famous?” Keiji blurts again, and oh, god, he’s tying his own noose after this.

 

    “Dude, no,” Atsumu gives him a confused look. “I don’t even have a pen. Or paper.”

 

    “I have one.” Keiji pulls out a silver sharpie. Damn it, Koutarou must’ve stolen his pen and replaced it with his bus-seat-owl-doodling tool. Well, the doodling tool is close enough.

 

    “What about the paper?”

 

    Paper is something Akaashi Keiji does not carry in his pocket. “I think you should give me your jacket.”

 

    “Off my back? For free?” Atsumu gives Keiji the “are you stupid?” look.

 

    “I’ll give you my sweatshirt. My school’s colors are superbly aesthetic, and you’ll look like you’re with the shits if you watch our matches.” Keiji tries his best to be convincing, going so far as to talk with his hands.

 

    Keiji has wanted to die of embarrassment multiple times since engaging in conversation with Miya Atsumu — truth? Keiji pulls his sweatshirt off of his back and hands it to Miya Atsumu — truth? Miya Atsumu does the same and takes the marker from Keiji’s hands, signs the jacket, and trades with Keiji — also truth? Now pick the lie. Just kidding; it all happened.

 

    “Oh my god, is that your phone number?” Keiji asks, forgetting to control his volume (and cursing himself for spending too much time with Koutarou).

 

    “Say it a little louder, why don’t you? I don’t think everyone in the third gym heard you,” Atsumu frowns.

 

    “So sorry,” Keiji clutches the jacket to his heart. “May I ask why I now possess your number?”

 

    Atsumu shrugs. Keiji doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

 

    Okay, he likes it.

 

    “Call or text?”

 

    “Text first, so I can save the contact, then both.”

 

    “Will definitely do, Miya Atsumu.”

 

    “Glad to hear it, Akaashi Keiji.”

 

    “Do you need a hug?”

 

    “N—” Atsumu stops himself and walks closer to Keiji. “Yes, yes, I do.”

 

    Keiji steps closer in turn and wraps his arms around Atsumu. It’s awkward given they’re both holding outerwear, but Atsumu smells good, and he’s warm, and he’s firm, and he lets go.

 

   “I gotta go before Kita cuts me apart limb by limb and feeds me to his grandma’s cats. Talk to you later, Keiji.”  

 

ii.

  


“Is that an Izakinari zip?” Koutarou asks with a hint of betrayal in his words as he looms over Keiji’s futon.

 

Keiji, on the other side of the room, nods and answers, “Bokuto-san, it’s Inarizaki.”

 

“Same thing.” Koutarou huffs and takes a seat on Keiji’s futon; Keiji joins him and pulls the zip over his pajamas.

 

“Why is there a phone number on it? Are they gay, too? Akaashi, I told you you have to stop spreading the gay. I caught Kuroo and Sawamura making out yesterday.”

 

“Bokuto-san,” Keiji resists the urge to groan, “for the last time, gay isn’t spreadable, otherwise you’d be joining Kuroo-san and Sawamura-san, and no, Inarizaki is not gay — not as far as I know, anyway.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Keiji sighs. “Yes, I’m positive.”

 

“Did you ask for his number, or..?”

 

“No, I didn’t ask.”

 

“Which one? It better not be Aran.” Koutarou folds his arms across his chest and gives a disapproving glare.

 

“No, the setter.”

 

“You mean… like…” Koutarou grins, “the mega hot one?”

 

Keiji nods with an emotionless wink and shrugs the zip on.

 

“Well, guess I better go tell Kaori her dreams are crushed,” Koutarou begins to get up, but Keiji puts a hand on his knee and pulls him down.

 

“Keep it on the low-low,” Keiji whispers.

 

Koutarou nods vehemently and gives Keiji a wink. “Low-low, got it cap’n.”

 

“You're the captain.”

 

“I know, but you’re a better one.” Koutarou leans on Keiji’s shoulder.

 

“Not really, I think we make a good team. I do all the paperwork, and you do all the peppy things. You’re quite inspiring.”

 

“I guess so. Let’s text Atsumu.”

 

“Let’s?”

 

Koutarou grabs Keiji’s phone from its resting place on the futon, types in the passcode, and starts a text message to Atsumu’s phone number.

 

_[21:04]_

_Hey hey hey, HOTTIE._

 

If Keiji didn’t find it so amusing that Koutarou types the way he talks (and that he doesn’t bother trying to sound like Keiji himself), Keiji would probably kill him.

 

_[21:04]_

_New phone who dis_

_If you’re Takahashi, fuck off_

 

_[21:04]_

_Not Takahashi_

_Hottie setter from Fukurodani Academy_

 

_[21:05]_

_Call_

 

_21:05 outgoing call_

 

Koutarou shoves the phone to Keiji’s ear, and Keiji begrudgingly accepts it.

 

“Hi,” Keiji greets; his voice is oddly light, airy, nervous.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Who’s Takahashi?”

 

“A stalker.”

 

“You have one of those?”

 

“A few.”

 

“That sucks. Probably because you’re so attracti—” Keiji stops himself, but he can’t take it back now.

 

“You, too. Anyway, what time are you playing tomorrow?”

 

“Uh, like, ten. You should come watch.”

 

“I have to leave at eight, but I’ll watch online.”

 

Keiji smiles to himself before standing up and heading to the patio. He holds his phone with his shoulder as he shrugs on a jacket and gloves. January isn’t getting the best of him, that’s for sure.

 

iii.

 

Keiji’s first time wearing Atsumu’s jacket is after nationals. When he’s home, sitting on his bed. Alone.

 

It’s fleece on the inside, and it feels like what Keiji imagines Heaven would, and it smells nice… like cedar wood and musk, and and it looks like it belongs on him with Atsumu’s name signed across his chest. It’s _Keiji’s_ now.

 

Keiji’s phone vibrates on his dresser, clicking against the hardwood.

 

_[Miya Atsumu, 23:17]_

_Attached image_

_Your sweatshirt looks better on me, just saying_

 

Keiji gasps quietly, a bit taken aback and feeling attacked by how cute Atsumu looks in his shirt. Keiji figures he should send a picture back. He doesn’t bother trying to smile, and he leaves his curly hair in a mess, but whatever. Selfies aren’t his thing.

 

_[23:18]_

_Attached image_

_Likewise._

 

_[23:18]_

_Guess it was a wise trade then_

 

_[23:18]_

_Definitely._

 

_[23:18]_

_Sign it next time I see you_

 

_[23:18]_

_Okay, but I’m not planning on becoming a famous volleyball player or anything like that._

 

_[23:18]_

_I wanna match lol_

 

_[23:19]_

_Fuck_

_Okay. Lol_

 

_[23:19]_

_I watched your last match, by the way_

 

_[23:19]_

_Oh no_

_What’d you think?_

 

_[23:19]_

_You think too much_

 

_[23:19]_

_You don’t think enough._

 

_[23:19]_

_Lmao wow_

_For real tho_

_You should like, I don’t know_

_Stop overthinking_

_You’re good, but you’d be better if you could focus more_

 

_[23:20]_

_Well thanks for your input, Mister Miya Atsumu._

_(Fuck you.)_

_(Not actually.)_

 

_[23:20]_

_You’re so weird lol_

 

_[23:20]_

_Then why’d you give me your number, huh?_

 

_[23:20]_

_1)hot very hit_

 

_[23:20]_

_very hit_

 

_[23:20]_

_Stfu_

_2) Your weird is oddly amusing_

 

_[23:20]_

_Wait_

_Were you calling me hot?_

 

_[23:20]_

_Yeah_

_If you even think about screenshotting this, remember that I know where you go to school_

_Every week._

_Five days._

_And I can pass as a student w your stupid sweatshirt_

 

_[23:21]_

_I can’t believe you think I’m hot._

 

_[23:21]_

_Are you mad_

 

_[23:21]_

_No, I think I’m hot, too._

 

_[23:21]_

_Such an asshole lol_

 

_[23:21]_

_So_

_Are you gay?_

 

_[23:21]_

_Idk, tell me what you think_

_Don’t overthink it_

 

_[23:21]_

_Maybe._

_You could like girls and boys._

_And the gender nonconforming._

_Or nobody._

_Or you could’ve just been being nice._

 

_[23:21]_

_Tbh I probably haven’t given it as much thought as you just did_

 

_[23:21]_

_What's that supposed to mean?_

 

_[23:22]_

_That I don’t give a shit_

 

_[23:22]_

_What the fuck?_

_You should._

 

_[23:22]_

_There r more important things to think about_

 

_[23:22]_

_Like?_

 

_[23:22]_

_Like how hot you are_

 

_[23:22]_

_BYE._

 

_[23:22]_

_Like tungsten boiling point hot_

 

_[23:22]_

_BYE._

 

_[23:22]_

_Sweet dreams._

 

Keiji throws his head back with a groan, but he texts back anyway.

 

_[23:23]_

_Good night._

_I’m saving your contact as Gay Boy._

 

_[23:24]_

_Fuck you lol_

_I like girls_

 

_[23:24]_

_Good night for real this time, gay boy._

 

_[23:24]_

_❤️_

 

Keiji throws his phone _._

 

iv.

 

Keiji just has so many feelings.

 

It’s hard to get rid of them sometimes.

 

So he waits until he’s alone with his confidant. “Bokuto-san.”

 

Koutarou dries his hair in front of the locker room mirror. “Yeah?”

 

“I think I have a real thing for him.”

 

“Komi?” Koutarou gestures toward the libero exiting the locker room.

 

“No,” Keiji sighs, and once they’re actually alone, he says, “ _him_.”

 

“Akaashi, I know I say things once in a while that make me seem semi-intelligent, but I thought you knew it was all a facade, so can you just tell me who?”

 

“Miy—”

 

“Miya Atsumu!” Koutarou drops his towel. “Right, right, _right_! I forgot you have a crush on him! I asked around about him, you know,” Koutarou grins and drops his head towel to the floor. Keiji tosses him clothing.

 

“Who’d you ask?”

 

“Wakawaka, and he gave me Aran’s number, and he gave me the 411 on Miya Atsumu ‘cause I told him I have Kita’s number and I’d expose his crush.”

 

“...and?”

 

“He’s a total asshole according to Aran,” Koutarou shrugs.

 

“That's it?”

 

“Wakatoshi says he’s a nice kid. A dreamer, something like that, anyway.”

 

“What else did Aran say.”

 

“Let me show you the text.” Koutarou slips on his shirt and pants while Keiji gets Koutarou’s phone from his bag.

 

_[izakinari competition, 9:23 p.m.]_

_You’re a real asshole, you know that?_

 

_[9:23 p.m.]_

_yeah wtv just tell me abt atsumu_

 

_[9:24 p.m.]_

_Atsumu is… different. I don’t even know where to start. He probably more of an asshole than you._

_Definitely more._

_If he gives a compliment, it’s usually backhanded._

_He’s very arrogant and rude._

_He probably has anger issues, but he doesn’t physically fight anyone other than his brother. I think they just intensely dislike and compete with each other even though they’re playing for the same team._

_He’s aboveboard, and that isn’t a good thing. He’ll give you his opinion even if you don’t want it. For example, if you’re having an off day and spike like trash, he’ll tell you you’re trash._

_Conversely, he lies. A lot. Not about anything important, though._

_He’s amused by stupid things. Like when we first met, he thought I was cool because my name sounds foreign._

_I heard he falls asleep in class every other day._

_He hasn’t failed an exam, though, and he has a few brain cells._

_He eats like a pig. This is no exaggeration._

_He loves food almost as much as he loves volleyball._

_His rudeness is indiscriminate unless he’s intimidated or has a crush. He doesn’t like a lot of people, but when he does, he’s quieter than usual. Less of a putz. He’s pretty consistent with this behavior._

_Hotheaded. Very, very hotheaded. When he’s really angry at someone, he’ll be quiet and calm but the epitome of degrading._

_Sometimes he’s nice. Once I told him I needed new knee pads, so he got me new knee pads and my favorite chocolate bar the next day since it was my birthday._

_He cries easily when someone does something nice for him._

_He likes dogs more than people._

_There’s a common misconception that he’s inconsiderate, but he’s very capable of being considerate. He just doesn’t care about most other people._

_High maintenance._

_Is that enough?_

 

_[9:38 p.m.]_

_no_

 

_[9:38 p.m.]_

_I’m going to show up at Fukurodani one morning, wait for you by the gate, kidnap you, and kill you._

 

_[9:38 p.m.]_

_is he gay_

 

_[9:38 p.m.]_

_Not gay. He likes older women, and I don’t know if he likes guys._

 

_[9:38 p.m.]_

_k thanks love u mwah_

 

_[9:39 p.m.]_

_Wait._

_Do you like him?_

 

_[9:39 p.m.]_

_ew no_

_asking for a friend llol_

 

“Yeah, I get that he’s super cute, and whatever, but he seems like a bit of a bitch, ‘Kaashi.”

 

Keiji raises his eyes to meet Koutarou’s and tosses Koutarou’s phone to back him. “I like bitches.”

 

Koutarou grins, “I’ll support you.”

 

v.

 

Keiji has had lots of crushes in his limited lifetime.

 

Yesterday, he had a crush on his positively gorgeous turkey club sandwich. Three and a half weeks ago, he thought Miya Atsumu was absolutely stunning. Two months ago, he thought, “Is it just me or is Sakusa Kiyoomi attractive? Just me? Please don’t be just me.” Five months ago, Keiji found Kenma’s dumps were just as impressive as his thigh muscles. One year ago, Keiji found himself gushing at that one Shiratorizawa setter with the dyed hair and the responsible bad-boy vibe. Two years ago, he found himself infatuated with Koutarou’s perfect cross spikes… and his knee pads.

 

But not once — never in his life! — has he thought, “I’m in like.”

 

Of course, that’s an odd thing to think, but Keiji’s an odd fellow, and he monotonously thinks _I fucking like Miya Atsumu_ . This revelation emerges as Keiji sits in the living room, staring at his crotch, on which Atsumu’s spread in _Volleyball Weekly_ lies.

 

Keiji is gaping at himself, unsure whether to be shocked or disturbed by his revelation. Both are appropriate, he concludes, so in his disturbia, he does the first thing he thinks to: call the object of his _like_.

 

Atsumu picks up before the end of the first ring.

 

“Mister Miya Atsumu,” Keiji begins without so much as a greeting.

 

“Keiji, it’s the middle of the afternoon, and I was taking a nap, can we please ju—” Fuck, why does his voice have to be so gravelly and sexy?

 

“Stop talking.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“I need you to do me a favor.”

 

“Name it.”

 

“Stop being so likeable,” with this, Keiji hangs up.

 

And he gets a call back not two seconds later.

 

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means…” Keiji plays with the zipper of his jacket, “you’re causing me a lot of… problems. Disagreeable ones.”

 

“Is there another kind of problem?” Atsumu asks, and he sounds just a tad bit done with Keiji.

 

“Well, now that you mention it, probably not.”

 

“I think you should take a nap, Keiji,” Atsumu sighs, “and when I told you not to think so much, I didn’t mean don’t think at all.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don’t think too much about this call anyway. Or the last one. Don’t want you to hurt your pretty head,” Keiji teases, attempting to make himself sound more natural, and it doesn’t work because he can practically hear Atsumu rolling his eyes.

 

“Keiji, you’re smart. Stop being dumb.”

 

“Wow, forget about our English session tomorrow.”

 

“No, Keiji, I love you,” Atsumu nullifies. And Keiji’s heart beats fast enough for him to think something’s seriously wrong. His hands sweat just enough that he thinks he actually has a whole, real, entire crush! His brain cells stop functioning, and he doesn’t just think (partially because he can’t), but he _knows_. “Keiji, are you still there?”

 

“Uh, see you at five tomorrow.”

 

“‘Kay, night.”

 

“Pleasant dreams.” Keiji drops his phone to the floor dramatically. “Pleasant fucking dreams — who even says that?”

 

vi.

 

Keiji’s always liked videocalls. He’s grown more fond of them recently since Tetsurou and Koutarou like to blast “Another One Bites the Dust” every time they all take a ride to the beach, and Keiji’s become a bit hard of hearing. Lip reading is useful.

 

Dreadfully useful.

 

Even on the shitty quality camera, Atsumu’s lips are beautiful. Soft, full, a naturally enticing shade of pink. Delectable, Keiji would say if he knew what they taste like, but he can only imagine. “Keiji, you’re being weird.”

 

“What?”

 

“Like not your normal weird. Like, you’re acting different.”

 

“Yeah, probably because I like you. Is that weird?”

 

Atsumu nods. “Definitely. Not a lot of people do.”

 

“Are you serious?”

 

“Completely.”

 

“But you’re so nice.”

 

“No, I’m quite the asshole.”

 

“But you’re super cute.”

 

“Cute loses value when the opportunity cost is cute _and_ nice.”

 

“What are you talking about? Nobody’s cute and nice. People like that are wishful figments of the imagination. Except you. You’re real.”

 

“You’re funny, Keiji.”

 

“See, you even give compliments. How kind you are,” Keiji observes, placing his palms on either side of his face and grinning.

 

“You're so gay.”

 

Keiji gives Atsumu a mock-pensive look. “Maybe Bokuto-san was right about the gay contagion.”

 

“Oh my fucking god, Keiji, I told you seven million times, I’m not gay.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Deadass.”

 

With a wistful sigh, Keiji thinks aloud, “I like you, and it’s making me really… feel really weird. Not the good kind,” Keiji shakes his head.

 

“Then stop.”

 

You see, Keiji really does think he likes Atsumu. He’s fun (to make fun of), and he’s talented (at setting and being a loudmouth), and he’s charming (sometimes), and he’s got a mellifluous voice (whatever that means), and he’s nice (to Keiji at least).

 

And Keiji would love to stop liking him and stop this odd feeling in his chest, but he takes another look at Atsumu, makes eye contact through the camera, and replies, “No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Atsumu, do you understand how ‘like’ works?” Keiji isn’t being rude. It’s not a rhetorical question to which the answer would be a definitive “no,” but it’s a genuine question, to which Keiji would like to know the answer some day.

 

Atsumu shakes his head. “Not really.”

 

“Yeah, me neither, but I know I can’t stop it at a whim.”

 

“Alrighty, then,” Atsumu shrugs, “guess you’ll just have to deal with it. Anyway, could you help me with calculus?”

 

Keiji’s eyes light up, and he feels a warmth in his heart. “I _love_ calculus.”

 

“Something is seriously wrong with you.”  

 

Keiji doesn't mind being told that something’s wrong with him. Not even when the teller is someone who probably has five times as many malfunctions as Keiji does up in that little head of his. So, Keiji smiles — no, he grins — and his dimples are out in all their glory, and he asks Atsumu to text him a picture of the assignment.

 

And Atsumu flashes his pearly whites back. “You’re the best.”

 

vii.

 

Keiji likes the sound of Atsumu’s voice when he's half asleep. It doesn’t hurt that Keiji’s also half asleep, and he likes _everything_ right now, but he thinks he has some extra liking for Atsumu’s voice.

 

“I like how you say whatever you’re thinking when you talk,” Atsumu almost whispers.

 

“I like how you’re not afraid to call me out.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Backtracking to last week… I think you were right about Sakusa and Komori,” Keiji says into the phone, then scrolls through his Instagram feed and finding Komori’s account.

 

“I already got the tea on it, Keiji, you’re so behind.”

 

“I beg your pardon.”

 

“Usuri told me, like, eight hours ago that Sakusa gave in to the teasing and admitted they’re fucking.”

 

“One point for the gay volleyball community, and a moment of silence for his followers.”

 

Atsumu, disrupting the moment of silence, says, “Whatever, he doesn’t have that many fangirls, anyway. And have you noticed that, like, everyone who plays volleyball is gay?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Except that one Karasuno guy. Tanaka, yeah, that’s his name. He has some girlfriend taller than both of us combined.”

 

“Excuse me, you’re calling me behind, but you’re getting ahead of yourself. They’re not dating, just awkwardly flirting because he sort of fucked things up at nationals.”

 

“And who’s your tea source?”

 

“Nobody says tea source, Atsumu. And it’s Tsukishima, who gets it from Ennoshita, obviously.”

 

“What’d’ya mean, _obviously_? I don’t know which li’l Karasuno crows you fuck with.”

 

“The blond and ginger ones.”

 

“You fuck with shrimpy?”

 

“Uh, yeah, he’s the epitome of adorable and fun to watch.”

 

“I would agree, but I have an intense, unfulfilled desire to crush his hopes and dreams.”

 

“I was rooting for him when he crushed yours.”

 

Atsumu scoffs as if he’s offended. “He didn’t _crush_ them; he just hampered them a little bit.”

 

Keiji feels bad for mentioning crushed dreams given the circumstances they had met under, but Atsumu doesn’t give him much shit for it, so he doesn’t apologize.

 

“I’m glad your spirit is still very much alive.”

 

“Shit never dies.”

 

viii.

 

Keiji sees Atsumu for the first time again, two months post-nationals.

 

It isn’t planned. In fact, it’s probably the worst time Keiji could run into Atsumu.

 

He’s in Osaka for the weekend for his cousin’s birthday, and he’s going for McDonald’s at one in the morning, and his hair is akin to a rat’s nest, and he has on a mismatched (and he does mean terribly mismatched — pink and green and orange) makeshift sweatsuit from two different sweatsuit sets, and his socks have corgi and pizza designs on them, and his eyes are dark, and his hands feel dry and calloused, but at least his nails are groomed. Because his three-year-old cousin decided to file them and paint them a translucent, sparkly pink.

 

Atsumu, on the other hand, is snazzed up in a colorful shirt from some band that Keiji doesn’t know and a girl accessorizing his arm. Long curly hair, cheekbones, big eyes, plump lips, slim waist.

 

She’s _pretty_. The conventional kind, the kind that the girls in the TV shows look like, the Queen Bee kind, and Keiji’s a bit disappointed, but he pushes it aside for now.

 

Keiji’s probably going to embarrass Atsumu because he looks like an unfashionable reject — a gay one at that — but he still stops outside of McDonald’s entrance and waves and calls to Atsumu, fast approaching Keiji.

 

Atsumu is still letting her cling to his jacket, but he stops walking when he’s close to Keiji. “Hey, loser,” he grins.

 

“Hey, gay boy,” Keiji smiles back, and just before he goes in for a hug, the girl stops him with her and Atsumu’s tangled arms, and from the look of disgust on her face, Keiji knows he’s fucked.

 

“Oh my _god_ , you are such a… a bigot!” She shakes with anger. “How fucking dare you? You know that we live in the twenty-first century, right? Gay isn’t a fucking insult, and it’s not a joke because jokes are supposed to be funny, and I don’t know what kind of bubble you live under that you think it’s okay to call someone _gay boy_ in jest, but you need to pop it!”

 

She’s tiny, but she’s got a lot of fire, Keiji will give her that. Atsumu peers down at her, and Keiji can see a smile hiding from the corners of his mouth. Atsumu doesn’t speak.

 

Keiji appreciates that she’s standing up for political correctness, or whatever it’s called, but still, he has to repress a sigh because bigot isn’t a word he likes to use to describe himself. “In the most respectful possible way,” Keiji glances at Atsumu then back to her, “I’d like to inform you that I’m flaming fucking gay.”

 

ix

 

“I don’t believe you’re gay,” Atsumu says once he meets Keiji back at McDonalds half an hour later. He looks Keiji, eating his Big Mac, up and down. “No gay guy would dress as shittily as you do.”

 

“What, your girlfriend didn’t lecture you about not stereotyping people?” Keiji raises his brows, and Atsumu laughs. Keiji’s eyes notice Atsumu’s missing his live accessory. “Where is she, anyway?”

 

“I told you,” Atsumu pulls out a red chair and sits across from Keiji, “I was gonna walk her home and come back.”

 

“Yeah, but I half-expected her to forbid you from being friends with me. Or from coming back alone.”

 

Atsumu leans forward and takes three of Keiji’s fries. “I mean, she was kind of pissed that I wasn’t going on the train with her since it’s a forty-minute ride, and it’s the last train ‘til five, but whatever.”

 

“I sort of thought that the next time I’d see you, you’d be wearing my sweatshirt, and I’d sign it, and we’d match, and we’d be with the shits.”

 

“Same, but you’re wearing a striped sweater and corgi socks, so… I guess we can’t match tonight.”

 

Atsumu noticed.

 

“Do you mean to tell me you don’t have corgi socks?”

 

“I was out of town when they sent the memo.”

 

Keiji grins as Atsumu takes some more fries. “We’ll just have to change that then.”

 

“Suppose we will.” Atsumu reaches for the fries again but stops, meeting Keiji’s eyes.

 

“Just take the rest.”

 

Keiji’s ideal date isn’t in McDonald’s, and it’s not at two in the morning, and it’s not in loungewear, nor is it after his date has just finished another date.

 

But for a second, Keiji almost forgets Atsumu has a girlfriend — something along those lines, anyway — and he makes the mistake of staring into Atsumu’s stupidly deep brown eyes, and noticing the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks when he blinks, and he puts a big, fat smile on Atsumu’s face by commenting on the chichi of the lady who just walked in’s nightgown, and he thinks about how stunning that smile is, and even worse, he says, “I can’t believe you have a girlfriend.”

 

Atsumu presses his index finger against his smile. “It’s a secret.”

 

“Who are you keeping it from? Miss Chichi over there?” Keiji points his thumb over his shoulder to the woman at the ordering line.

 

“Duh.”

 

“Do you like her?” Keiji assumes Atsumu’s one brain cell  will grant him the knowledge that Keiji is _not_ talking about Miss Chichi.

 

“Enough that we went on a fourth date, yeah.”

 

For a moment, Keiji doesn’t know how to react, so he says the first thing on his mind: “well, fuck you.”

 

With a smug grin, Atsumu says, “I’m taken.”

 

Keiji wants to be pissed, but he walked right into that one. Actually, he doesn’t want to be pissed. He wants Atsumu to be single. And then he wants to woo him. And then he wants to be zealous while he gives Atsumu the world on a silver platter and feeds it to him with a golden spoon.

 

“Hey, you never told me why you’re here.”

 

“Am I not allowed to go to McDonald’s when I get the midnight munchies?”

 

“Not in Osaka, you’re not.”

 

“Evidently,” Keiji gestures to his own being (his presence at the table), “you’re wrong. However, I’m in Osaka because it’s my cousin’s birthday weekend.”

 

“You traveled, like, six hours just for your cousin’s birthday?”

 

“We grew up together until she had to move.”

 

“Okay, I get that, but why didn’t you tell me you’d be so close?”

 

“You see, Atsumu,” Keiji leans forward, propping his chin on his hand, “I might have made the dean’s list, but I’ve never been very spatially intelligent.”

 

“You're a _fraud_.”  Atsumu’s voice is betrayed, but his smile gives him away.

 

“Quiet down, honey, there’s a guy sleeping at the next table over.”

 

“I’m not your honey.” It’s a joke — or at least Keiji hopes it is — but it sucks to hear out loud. Keiji feels like his mother’s poinsettia in a summer heat. A bit slouchy, on the verge of death even, but still vibrantly saturated.

 

And so offensive self-defense mechanisms kick in. “Hey, I never said you were mine. You’re not _nearly_ sweet enough to be _my_ honey.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, I know you have a thing for me,” Atsumu rolls his eyes, and my, my, is that annoyance that Keiji spots in his eyes? Sautéed in arrogance and seasoned with a pinch of genuine ire?

 

Keiji feels that if he were a normal person he wouldn’t revel in Atsumu’s irritation. He would apologize for being a dick, hug it out if Atsumu would let him, and call it a day.

 

But, alas, Keiji is not normal. He takes pleasure in Atsumu’s glare, and he thinks it’s cute when he angrily stuffs Keiji’s fries into his mouth, and he’s overjoyed that Atsumu wants him to want him.

 

Keiji could’ve replied with something serious like, “Much to my chagrin, me having a thing for you does not make you mine,” but instead, he flashes a shit-eating grin and says, “I mean, if you really want to be my honey, you can, but that whole attitude of yours is going to have to change. I prefer my honey without much kick to it. That’s what spices are for.” A total lie. Keiji likes it all in one. The whole package.

 

Atsumu’s eyes narrow into slits. “I could be your sugar, spice, and everything fucking nice if I wanted to.”

 

“If you wanted to.” Keiji takes a nonchalant bite of his Big Mac.

 

“If and only if.” From the acrid tone, Keiji knows that ‘if’ is never going to happen.

 

It’s not that serious, Keiji thinks.

 

It’s nothing he should take to heart.

 

It’s not like it was ever going to happen.

 

“I’m sure you could be my absolute everything if you really wanted to.” Keiji, uncharacteristically, raises his middle finger to Atsumu.

 

“Damn straight. Anyway, how long are you gonna be here?”

 

“Just until Sunday morning.”

 

Atsumu boldly sips from Keiji’s drink, and Akaashi Germaphobe Keiji is okay with that. Akaashi Germaphobe Keiji thinks it’s an indirect kiss, and it’s pretty lame, but it makes his heart flip.“You should come over tomorrow.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Keiji listens to Atsumu’s late night babbling, like usual. He thinks that his girlfriend should be the one Atsumu calls at night, but he doesn’t mention it. He also thinks Atsumu’s a bit more of a dick than he did yesterday, but he doesn’t mention that, either.

 

x.

 

Keiji knows something’s off.

 

Yesterday, he would’ve been jubilant to hang out at Atsumu’s house. He would’ve seized the opportunity like it was his birthright. He would’ve grinned at Atsumu and told him how excited he was.

 

Today is different from yesterday.

 

Today, Keiji feels like his heart is composed of wet paper, clamped to two strings — one pulling northward and the other southward. Keiji thinks it’s similar to the feeling he got when he lost at nationals, but this feeling, he can’t put a name to. It’s a sharper pain, and it dangles off his head and swings in front of him obnoxiously.

 

Keiji wishes he could describe it in a single adjective like “sucky,” but, of course, it’s more complicated than that.

 

_“Are you going to introduce us?” Atsumu’s mother asks._

 

_Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Keiji’s my friend from volleyball.”_

 

Keiji feels awkward. Not his normal, say-whatever-he-feels-like-even-if-it’s-stupid awkward, but a stiff awkward. Like he can’t say whatever he feels like if it’s even remotely folly. He wants to run the five hundred kilometers home, curl up in his bed, and decompose into dirt.

 

Keiji’s just glad Osamu’s with them, so he doesn’t have to talk as much because Atsumu and Osamu can fill the air with bickers for hours on end.

 

But then human nature calls, and Atsumu leaves for the bathroom, and Osamu puts down the PlayStation controller, and he gives Keiji a long, unnervingly soul-seeing look.

 

“Why do you even like him?”

 

Keiji cocks his head, half-offended, half-embarrassed. “What?”

 

“You like him. Why?”

 

“It’s not really something I can control.”

 

“I heard you met his girly.”

 

“A generous definition of met, but sure,” Keiji shrugs.

 

Osamu’s gaze is blank yet intense. “You should tell him.”

 

“I have.”

 

“I know, he told me, but he didn’t really know what you meant.”

 

“Didn’t know what what meant?” Atsumu is back, just a minute later.

 

“Nothing, fuck you,” Osamu and Keiji answer simultaneously. Atsumu lets it go.

 

xi.

 

Keiji’s eyes fall toward the intertwined fingers of two girls walking ahead of them. One of them lets her fingers dance across the other’s knuckles. They’re laughing, and they’re smiling, and they lean into each other to whisper every now and then.

 

“What’s up with you?” Atsumu asks, closing half of the gap between them. “You’re usually not so quiet.”

 

“Yeah, I am.”

 

“Not around me, you’re not — unless it’s, like, three in the morning, but it’s six in the evening, so, what’s up?”

 

“I’m feeling quiet right now.”

 

“You’re overthinking.”

 

“I'm not.”

 

“Prove it.”

 

“Am I supposed to find some magical key to my entire brain and give you an all-access pass to my thoughts?”

 

Atsumu nods and holds his hand out, like there’s actually a magical key. And he won’t take it back, not even when Keiji gives it a good, hard, should-be-laser-shooting glare.

 

When the hand nudges Keiji’s forearm, Keiji puts his hand in Atsumu’s. The touch burns Keiji’s skin although he was expecting it. “Can you read my thoughts now?”

 

Atsumu pretends to take the key and slides his fingers away. Keiji’s fingers are left cold. “No, I’m leaving a bad Yelp review.”

 

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Keiji elbows Atsumu, and he only realizes that his tone was perhaps not as nice as it could’ve been when he spares a glance at Atsumu’s eyes. They’re like they were when Keiji was an unfiltered moron and asked Atsumu if he cried.  His eyebrows are drawn together, and his lips are downturned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“Like what?”

 

Keiji gives an expression of minor annoyance where his eyebrows draw together, and he juts out his bottom lip. “Like for real.”

 

“Are you pissed at me? ‘Cause if you are, I’m kinda fuckin’ dumb, and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

 

“You never told me you have a girlfriend,” Keiji confesses.

 

“She slips my mind when we talk,” Atsumu shrugs, like that’s an acceptable answer.

 

“Do I slip your mind when you guys talk?”

 

“Keiji, don’t ask shit like that.”

 

Keiji dislikes being pushy with a passion. It’s one of the worst qualities, he convinced. Annoying, rude, and unattractive. Yet, Keiji asks, “Yes, or no?”

 

Atsumu shoots him a glare, but he attempts to garner an answer, sort of. “I don’t fucking know.”

 

And Keiji returns to more of the person he wants to be. The kind that knows when to leave things alone. “Okay.”

 

xii.

 

[Miya Atsumu, 3:27 a.m.]

Send your address

 

[5:28 a.m.]

You should sleep more.

 

xiii.

 

It’s been an awkward three days of Keiji wondering if he should text Atsumu, deciding not to, checking his phone every hour to see if Atsumu texted, being disappointed when he hasn’t, and curling into a sad, human ball with Atsumu’s sweater over his knees.

 

To break the chain, Keiji receives a letter in the mail. From Miya Atsumu.

 

_Keiji,_

 

_I have some shit that’s hard to say, but I thought it’d be weird to text, so I’m writing. Anyways, I know you’re mad at me, and I don’t really know why, but I think it’s because of my girlfriend, but I don’t talk to her as much as you, so it’s not like she’s getting in the way of our friendship, and I don’t think it’s that big of a deal._

 

_And I really like our friendship because you’re cool, sort of, and nice, and you let me eat your fries, and you help me with homework. You’re like… the ideal friend. I don’t even care that you don’t know how to dress and are kinda embarrassing. You’re fun to talk to._

 

_So I hope you forgive me, or something like that, and we can be friends like before. That’s it, I guess. Thanks for coming to my TED talk._

 

_Love,_

_Atsumu_

 

_16:18, outgoing call_

 

“Miya Atsumu,” Keiji declares Atsumu’s name like it’s a complete thought.

 

“Yo.”

 

“I got your letter.”

 

“Did you read it?”

 

“No, why would I do that?”

 

Atsumu grunts into the phone. Like a fucking oaf. Keiji thinks he’s stupid for liking it. “I’m okay with being friends,” Keiji says.

 

“I never know what anything you say means anymore.”

 

“Me neither.” Keiji knows that’s probably not a good thing, but he smiles, anyway.

 

xiv.

 

Akaashi Keiji is an idiot.

 

Not in the sort of “I was born with two brain cells” way, but in the “every time I think of him only a quarter of a brain cell works” sort of way. The “I know he has a girlfriend, and I don’t know if he likes guys — or me — but I’m still going to pine after him” sort of way.

 

Keiji’s convinced himself that Atsumu isn’t straight because he called Keiji _hot_ , and Keiji’s perfectly aware that straight males can acknowledge the attractiveness of other males, but is another male’s attractiveness a proper reason for a heterosexual male to give his phone number to said attractive male?

 

Keiji thinks not.

 

So he stays close with Atsumu, like Atsumu wants. Like Keiji wants. Because Keiji likes the way Atsumu says his name. He likes that Atsumu laughs at his stupid thoughts. He likes Atsumu’s ridiculously cute enlightened smile when they do calculus over video chat. He likes that he can talk shit about group project members with Atsumu and not have to worry about Atsumu telling them. He likes Atsumu’s brutal, heart-crushing honesty. He likes how passionate Atsumu is about everything he does. He likes videochatting while Atsumu dyes the roots of his hair. He likes getting texts from Atsumu at two in the morning asking how his day was.

 

Keiji likes his relationship with Atsumu.

 

Keiji doesn’t mind being an idiot.

 

xv.

 

_1:03 a.m. incoming call_

 

The phone buzzes on Keiji’s nightstand for a few seconds before he has the willpower to check who’s calling.

 

Miya Atsumu.

 

At an ungodly hour.

 

“Nothing good happens after midnight,” Keiji greets.

 

“Shu’up,” Atsumu’s voice is quiet, and Keiji can barely make out his words.

 

“You good?”

 

“No. Talk to me.”

 

“I’m very tired, and as much as I like you, I kind of want to sleep.”

 

“Please.”

 

“Fine,” Keiji yawns. “I’ll tell you a story.”

 

“A happy one,” Atsumu demands, but the usual command laced in his voice is gone.

 

“Okay, once upon a time, a boy met an owl in the forest, and the owl tried to bite his nose off, but he gave it food, and now they’re best friends, and they both have noses — well, nose and beak. The end.”

 

“Lame.”

 

“You sound like you need sleep more than I do.”

 

“I like your voice,” Atsumu whispers.

 

“Um, I like yours too.”

 

“I like that you don’t hate me even though I knew you had a big fucking crush on me and never told you about Etsuko.”

 

“Is that her name?”

 

“I like being,” Atsumu stops, and Keiji thinks he can hear a sniffle, “your friend.”

 

“Me too, Atsumu.”

 

“Promise you’ll keep being my friend.”

 

“I’d pinky promise, but you’re far away.” Keiji’s voice has reduced to a whisper.

 

“Promise me.”

 

“I promise.”

 

“G’night, Keiji.”

 

“Goodnight, Atsumu.”

 

xvi.

 

It’s been two and a half weeks since Keiji and Atsumu’s 1:00 a.m. call. It’s also been two and a half weeks since Atsumu found a Polaroid on the sidewalk, fully in tact.

 

And he’s been abusing the fact that he has Keiji’s home address because this is the third polaroid picture Keiji’s come home to this week.

 

The first picture Keiji found in the mail was of a volleyball with the word “headass,” written in what Keiji would describe as serial-killer-handwriting, scrawled across it. Why? Because Keiji didn’t know what headass meant until last week, and his enlightenment is, of course, courtesy of Atsumu.

 

The second picture was of a snail and a daisy that Atsumu had “conveniently found” (read: searched for in the nearby grass, picked a few, and tried out six different flowers in seven different positions before taking the picture) beside it. Atsumu said he thought it was cute.

 

This picture, filtered in black and white, is of Keiji’s sweatshirt on Atsumu’s body. It’s has Keiji’s small, neat signature on the right side of his chest from the time Keiji visited Osaka and, by extension, Hyogo. The note in the envelope with the picture requests that Keiji put the photo in his phone case.

 

Keiji, standing on the sidewalk by his mailbox, calls Atsumu to inquire about his request.

 

Atsumu answers before the first ring ends. “‘Sup.”

 

“Cute sweatshirt.”

 

“Wha— Oh, that one. Thanks, I got it from this really weird kid who wanted to exchange outerwear, like, four months ago.”

 

“You’re welcome, and I want you to know that my phone case is opaque.”

 

“I’ll buy you a new clear one with pressed flowers and glitter. My pic’ll be surrounded by BDE.”

 

“If it makes you happy.”

 

“It does. And I need a picture of you for my phone.”

 

“I don’t have a Polaroid.”

 

“Just come over.”

 

“I came over last time; you come to me.”

 

“You weren’t even trying to visit me, you were just there for your cousin, and you didn’t even tell me you were close by.”

 

“Okay, fair point,” Keiji bites his lip, “but I want you to come to me.”

 

Atsumu gives an inconvenienced grunt, but he acquiesces. “Only for a day ‘cause I practice six days a week.”

 

“Okay, see you next Sunday then.”

 

“Next?”

 

“Yeah, next.”

  


xvii.

  


Keiji sees Atsumu Saturday night at 10:55 in the evening, and the first thing Atsumu does is snap a photo of Keiji with his dumb Polaroid that’s half the size of his hand.

 

In the photo, Keiji, equipped with a lazy smile and a French bulldog t-shirt, stands alone in a sparsely-populated train station.

 

“You didn’t have to dress up for me,” Atsumu grins, grabbing at Keiji’s sweatpants that (miraculously) match the base color of his shirt. Atsumu’s hand is only on the cloth of Keiji’s pants, and that’s just fine, but then he slips his thumb beneath Keiji’s waistband, and Keiji feels skin on skin, and panic (and subsequently panic-recovery mode) commences.

 

“What are you talking about?” Keiji winks without a smile, and no, he’s not going to tell Atsumu that he had Koutarou help him pick his outfit.

 

Atsumu shrugs, slipping his hand away from Keiji and taking his phone out. “Can you hold this?” Keiji accepts the Polaroid while Atsumu pops off his phone case and puts the new picture of Keiji inside.

 

Keiji looks at the way Atsumu smiles when he puts the photo against the back of his phone. He wishes he could see Atsumu smile more. He wants to capture Atsumu’s excited-over-nothing grin forever and tattoo it to his forehead, so he readies the Polaroid while Atsumu finishes his art.

 

“Atsumu,” Keiji focuses and clicks the camera; Atsumu looks over to him. “You’re cute.”

 

Despite Keiji carrying Atsumu’s new favorite toy, Atsumu decides to shoulder check him. Hard. “I’m not cute.”

 

Keiji stumbles, almost falls, but he catches himself.

 

He’s not upset about being attacked for calling someone who’s positively adorable “cute.” He thinks Atsumu’s offended response is even more endearing.

 

“Hey, the picture’s falling out,” Atsumu swipes the photo from the camera and stuffs it in his pocket. “Anyway, look how adorable you are.” He shoves forward his phone case, which adorns a fresh photo of Keiji with silver glitter.

 

“Yeah, super cute, whatever. Give me that picture.” Like the savage he is, Keiji has no problem reaching into Atsumu’s pocket to retrieve the photograph that’s rightfully his. And he sandwiches it between his black phone case, other Polaroid pictures, and his gunmetal phone.

 

xviii.

 

To Keiji, Atsumu is a lot of things. He’s the boy who bought him an incredibly gay, clear phone case, adorned with pressed flowers and iridescent glitter. He’s the boy whose Polaroid smile Keiji looks at when he picks up his phone. He’s the boy Keiji texts goodnight to every evening he can remember. He’s the boy who makes Keiji’s mouth dry and his hands sweat. He’s the boy who makes Keiji’s heart pound in his chest to the point that Keiji thinks he needs to see a doctor. He’s the boy lying on Keiji’s bed, leaning his head on Keiji’s shoulder with his hair feathering the crook of Keiji’s neck.

 

“Atsumu, isn’t this really gay? Like alert-your-girlfriend-you’re-emo-cheating-on-her gay?”

 

Atsumu chuckles a light, airy chuckle, and it sounds like he can skip on water.

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And now confused.” Keiji puts his hand on Atsumu’s face and weakly shoves, not hard enough to actually move him.

 

Atsumu turns on his side and slides his arm across Keiji’s chest. As Atsumu meets Keiji’s eyes, he curls his fingers around Keiji’s side. Atsumu isn’t grinning like usual. His lips lie in a relaxed line, and his eyes are unreadable.

 

Keiji, still just as confused as ten seconds ago, puts his hand on Atsumu’s arm. He worries that Atsumu can feel his heartbeat. He worries that Atsumu can feel the sweat on his fingers. He worries that Atsumu cuddles him with the utmost platonic intentions. He worries that Atsumu knows what he worries about.

 

“Stop overthinking.” Atsumu says like he was born to tell Keiji what to do. Really, Keiji hates taking orders, but he thinks it’s so fucking _hot_ when they’re from Atsumu.

 

“I hate you,” Keiji blurts before he can stop.

 

Atsumu doesn’t react. Instead, his eyes peer into the darkest depths of Keiji’s seven-level soul.

 

And it makes Keiji want to pull him even closer than he already is until their lips fall in line with each other like pieces of a puzzle and melt together.

 

“Do you want me to break up with her?” Atsumu’s hot breath tickles Keiji’s ear, and Keiji’s back arches as a shiver runs down his spine.

 

Keiji, thinking it’s a trick question, chooses to answer with a question. “What?”

 

“Are you still gonna hate me if I break up with her?”

 

“Probably.”

 

Running his thumb across Keiji’s side, Atsumu says, “It’s sort of weird.” Keiji gives a frown. “I don’t mind the thought of her hating me, but if I think about you hating me — _actually hating me_ , not whatever you’re doing right now — I feel like, um, like crawling into a dirty ditch and dying.”

 

Keiji feels the way he felt when he got the highest score on his chemistry midterm: relieved (because he told Koutarou if he doesn’t score an A, Koutarou could permissively gamble his soul) and triumphant (self-explanatory).

 

Although Keiji thinks it’s best to stay out of others’ relationships, he’s a bit frustrated, and he barely has self-control around Atsumu when he’s calm, so in his frustration, he says, “Just break up with her; you obviously don’t care. Why are you dating her if you wouldn’t mind if she just said, ‘fuck you’ and lef—”

 

Atsumu responds by retracting his arm from across Keiji’s chest, instead positioning so his index finger is across Keiji’s lips. “Self-denial.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Keiji’s lips brush against Atsumu’s finger.

 

“You don’t have to.” Atsumu rakes his fingers through Keiji’s hair. They feel are cool, like full-body submersion into the ocean during July.

 

“What if I’ll hate you if I don’t?” Keiji challenges.

 

“Like you would.”

 

It’s not like Atsumu just quoted Peter Griffin or Homer Simpson, but for some reason, Keiji hears laughs sneaking out of his own mouth — loud, obnoxious laughs that buckle him over with his hands clutching his stomach, the kind of laughs that make him unwillingly cry. And he can't stop it.

 

Atsumu chuckles, but Keiji thinks he’s snickering at him, laughing like an idiot who doesn’t know he’s being made fun of and crying like a baby whose lollipop was just stolen.

 

Smiling, Atsumu plays with the curls of Keiji’s hair while Keiji attempts to gain composure.

 

Exhaling a heavy breath and wiping tears from his cheeks, Keiji asks, “Isn’t it foolish how I know you know why I’d never hate you, and I really want to tell you why anyway, but I’m afraid of what you’d say if I told you?”

 

“It’s weird that you’d even ask that, but I get you, sort of. I mean, if you knew I had a huge crush on you, I’d probably annoy you and tell you every day hoping you’d fall in love with me, or I’d just never talk to you about it because of fear of rejection.”

 

“Are you saying you have a huge crush on me?” Keiji knows the answer is no, but he figures it’s worth a try.

 

“You wish.”

 

Keiji grins. “Shut up, you like me.”  Pushing Atsumu flat down on the mattress, Keiji hugs Atsumu and lies his head on Atsumu’s chest. Keiji closes his eyes, fully intending to fall asleep on Atsumu.

 

“Only a little bit.”

 

Keiji’s eyes have never opened up faster.

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“Shocker, but I only lie to you, like, two percent of the time, and that was the other ninety-eight percent.”

 

“You actually like me?”

 

“I like you.”

 

“Like, what kind of like?”

 

“I’ve reached my honesty quota, Keiji. Go to sleep.”

 

“Please?” Keiji tries.

 

Atsumu doesn’t sate Keiji with an answer. He only continues running his fingers through his dark hair.

 

xix.

 

Keiji has this tendency to think of Atsumu in the purest light.

 

But that tendency is ruptured when Keiji jokingly texts, “send nudes” just because Koutarou dared him to.

 

“You’re the worst,” Keiji glares at Koutarou, sitting beside Keiji on the Akaashi family’s porch.

 

“You should be thanking me,” Koutarou grins. “I’m, like, the _best_ wingman.”

 

“They’re not even real nudes, don’t look so proud of yourself.”

 

“Okay, but his abs are naked, so technically, it’s a nude.”

 

“Nudes have dicks. Or clits.”

 

“And tits. He just sent you his tits,” Koutarou fails to hold back a laugh.

 

“What if he wants nudes back?” Keiji frowns.

 

“We have to take them then!”

 

“We?”

 

Koutarou shakes his head and grins, and honestly, Keiji finds it a bit condescending. “Oh, my sweet Akaashi-kun.”

 

“Since when do you call me th—”

 

“I can already see you standing in front of a mirror, fucking it up.”

 

“Bokuto-san, I'm not sure how one fucks up a nude.”

 

“Which is exactly why you need me to take them for you!”

 

Keiji knows Koutarou won’t leave him alone unless he acquiesces, so he lets Koutarou into his house and leads him to his room, where he begins to take off his clothes, and “Stop, dude.”

 

“What?” Keiji asks.

 

Koutarou sits at Keiji’s desk chair. “Just take off your tie and unbutton, like, three-fourths of your shirt, but don’t take it off.”

 

“Aren’t we taking nudes?”

 

Koutarou rolls his eyes into the back of his head. “You can’t give it all away at once. Anyway, since you’re not naked, I think the picture can benefit from your face in it because that’s your best feature other than your legs.”

 

“Isn’t it sort of weird that you know my best feature.”

 

“What’s mine?”

 

Keiji is reluctant to answer because he’s sure he’ll never hear the end of it, but still, he says, “Your thighs, or biceps. I can’t decide.”

 

“See, it’s not weird if you know mine, too. Best friends check each other out.”

 

Keiji rolls his eyes at Koutarou.

 

Koutarou takes the liberty of rolling Keiji’s chair over to Keiji, demanding he sits on the bed, and messing up Keiji’s hair.

 

“Take your blazer off.” Keiji does as told.

 

“Why am I listening to you, again?”

 

“‘Cause I send Kuroo nudes all the time.”

 

“TMI.” Keiji can't believe he just said that, but he did. “The gay contagion has spread to you now, too?”

 

“Yeah. Okay,” Koutarou rolls the chair further away, “you look hot now.”

 

“I always look hot.”

 

“You look extra hot now. Gimme your phone.”

 

Keiji throws it to Koutarou.

 

“Put your hand in your hair and look into the camera like it’s Atsumu’s dick.”

 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Keiji says, but he complies and lets Koutarou take a couple of pictures.

 

“Okay, now tilt your head back, and let me see that jawline. Also, open your mouth a little bit like you’re inviting him in.” Koutarou snaps a picture once Keiji’s in position and throws Keiji his phone back. “Here ya go, ya dirty slut.”

 

Keiji pays no mind to Koutarou’s comment, instead choosing to scroll through his camera roll. There are seven selfies of Koutarou before the “nudes.”

 

“Take pictures of me now.” Koutarou tosses Keiji his phone, like this is a completely normal request.

 

xx.

 

“So,” Atsumu’s voice rings in Keiji’s ear at twelve in the morning.

 

“So,” Keiji repeats, pressing twitching finger tips against each other.

 

“You do anything with my abs, or..?”

 

Keiji looks down at his own abs, remembering what was clinging to them a few hours earlier, hot, wet, and sticky. “Definitely not,” he lies.

 

“Hope you had a good time.” Keiji can practically hear Atsumu’s smirk.

 

“Enough about _me_. What did you do?”

 

“Come,” Atsumu says casually.

 

“Cool, cool,” Keiji says, and it comes out a bit more awkward than he intended, but Keiji assumes that applies to the rest of him, too.

 

“I feel like this is abnormal.”

 

“Definitely,” Keiji nods his head as if Atsumu can see.

 

“Why’d you ask for nudes in the first place, anyway?”

 

“Um, Bokuto-san told me to, and I may or may not have wanted to see if you’d do it.”

 

“Are you telling me your friend saw my quasi-nudes?”

 

Often, Keiji thinks quickly and therefore makes decisions quickly. But sometimes he thinks too quickly, and his thoughts crash into each other, and other thoughts come to the rescue, but they argue about how to proceed.

 

For example, _I strongly hate everything_ collides with _fuck, I shouldn’t have said that_ , and coming in at a forty-five degree angle is _why did I even send that text in the first place? Why would I listen to_ Bokuto-san _of all people?_

 

Then his mind stops for a second.

 

 _I really like Atsumu, what do I do?_ pulls up around the corner and begins to caution-tape off the collision. _Just fucking tell the truth, you idiot_ begins to tend to the injuries of _Why did I send that?_ _Or, you could always lie_ attempts to untangle _fuck, I shouldn’t have said that_.

 

“Tell the truth!” Keiji blurts, smacking a hand over his mouth before anything else can come out. He takes a deep breath and removes his hand. “Sorry, sorry, I was thinki—”

 

“Overthinking,” Atsumu corrects.

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“You don’t have to overthink. I’m not pissed, or whatever. I don’t really get mad at you.”

 

Keiji believes that what he’s feeling right now is what one would call his heart _melting_.

 

He doesn’t feel a sudden burst of warmth to liquefy his heart, nothing like that. He does, however, find his mouth agape, and his shoulders just slightly move forward as he gasps quietly, and his legs become jelly beneath him.

 

Keiji feels like he’s something to Atsumu that others aren’t.

 

Keiji feels _special_.

 

“I like you.”

 

Atsumu is just as brief and uncalled for in his response. “That was delayed.”

 

 _So you don’t like me back_. Keiji thinks, but he doesn’t speak. He presses his fingertips together in some sort of involuntary self-comfort, and he chews at his bottom lip, and he hopes Atsumu will speak because he really doesn’t want to. He wants to wallow under the covers of his bed and pretend to be a caterpillar and stay under until he feels special again and can come out as a butterfly.

 

“You there?” Atsumu asks.

 

Keiji tries to speak, but his throat is doing this funny thing where it refuses to let words pass through. It’s closed off for construction. Reconstruction, that is, of Keiji’s self-esteem. Keiji doesn't like to rush things; Keiji likes to let life ride out, but he knows Atsumu needs an answer, so he puts the phone down, tries to speak, and an ugly gasp comes out. He takes a drink of water, says a curse or two until he deems he sounds normal again, and he picks up the phone.

 

“Yeah, I’m here.”

 

“You good?”

 

“No, I want a hug.”

 

“I’d hug you, but you’re kinda far away.”

 

“You would?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what friends are for, no?”

 

“We aren’t friends,” Keiji says before considering the repercussions. Does he regret it? For a moment, but he’s glad he said it afterward because he wants to know how Atsumu feels.

 

“I don’t know what we are,” Atsumu sighs, “but whatever we are, they hug each other.”

 

“And more?”

 

“And more — within reason.”

 

“Can you come over again?”

 

“This relationship is really expensive, but whatever. See you Sunday.”

 

“I’ll buy your ticket.”

 

xxi.

 

Until five seconds ago, Keiji has never run away from law enforcement. In particular, he’s never run away from a few helicopters that were on their way back from an arrest and happened to spot two dumb teenagers trespassing atop an elementary school roof.

 

No, Keiji doesn’t like feeling his feet pound against hard ceiling, and he doesn’t like the sweat running down his face while he practically falls down a ladder, nor does he like scraping his knees in the fall, but he does like the boy beside him.

 

So, maybe Atsumu is a bad influence.

 

Does Keiji mind?

 

Of course not!

 

Running through a crowded park, covered in an umbrella of trees, Keiji thinks they’ve lost the heat. This is confirmed when Atsumu grabs his hand and insists they casually wander across the street because the helicopters fly back over to the school before rerouting in the opposite direction from Keiji and Atsumu.

 

“I don’t know why I hang out with you,” Keiji lies.

 

Atsumu looks at Keiji with his stupid straight smile and his tousled, mulch-adorned hair. “Because you love me, obviously.”

 

If Keiji had the energy to, he would shoulder-check Atsumu, but he doesn’t, so he lets Atsumu pull him along the sidewalk. “I never said that.”

 

“Not verbally.” Atsumu flashes a grin at an unenthusiastic Keiji. “I wish I had my Polaroid right now.”

 

“You have enough pictures of me.”

 

“But you look so different right now. Like, fucked up, but not your usual ‘I-don’t-know-how-to-dress-myself’ fucked up. You look so perfectly fucked up that I wanna remember it forever.”

 

“You have a phone, you know.”

 

“It’s not the same, but,” Atsumu stops walking and twirls Keiji in a circle before releasing him and holding out his phone, “I guess you’ll just have to be my background.” He takes a snapshot.

 

“Then you have to be mine,” Keiji states like it’s recorded law and takes a picture of Atsumu (and no, Atsumu doesn’t know there’s mulch in his hair).

 

Keiji thinks Atsumu looks his definition of fucked up, too. Staring into Atsumu’s brown eyes, Keiji also thinks, “you’re immaculate.”

 

“The immaculate have great ideas of trespassing on school roofs?” Atsumu asks in his sincerest of voices.

 

With a solemn nod, Keiji answers, “Yes, and they like taking pictures more than they should.”

 

“I only like taking pictures when they’re for you — or with you.”

 

“Well, aren’t I special?”

 

Atsumu reclaims Keiji’s hand and intertwines their fingers. “The fucking most.”

 

xxii.

 

The envelope is pink, glittery, and sitting on the Akaashi family dining table. It’s addressed to Akaashi Keiji, “the most special” in parentheses. A blue bubble-letter “spectacular” sticker lies beside the return address.

 

Keiji, the gentle soul he is, takes care to open the envelope without ripping it. It gives him more time to examine the pink paper, anyway. He thinks that if it could, his heart would smile — with dimples and bare its teeth for all of Keiji’s internal organs to see.

 

Keiji shakes out the opened envelope’s contents onto the dining table. There’s fine glitter — that’s new; Keiji will kill Atsumu for it later — and there’s a Polaroid photo (this, however, isn’t new).

 

A corgi with a top hat walking along a sidewalk. There are these awfully bright orange sweatpants walking alongside the dog and a bright pink leash. A green arrow sticker is on the bottom right corner pointing in the same direction, so Keiji flips the picture over.

 

Atsumu’s handwriting is barely legible as always.

 

_Reminded me of you. Date me?_

 

_15:02 outgoing call_

 

“Thank fucking hell you called, I was starting to think you got the letter and decided you hate me,” Atsumu exhales heavy before Keiji can get a word in.

 

Keiji wouldn’t smile if Atsumu could see, but Atsumu’s not here. “I decided that long ago, Atsumu, but I’ll date you, anyway.”

 

“Don’t you mean that’s why you’ll date me?”

 

“No, fuck you.”

 

“You’re so cute when you pretend you don’t like me.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m clearly communicating nothing but love.”

 

Keiji waits until he’s off the phone with Atsumu to scream.

 

xxiii.

 

Today, Keiji is the one slipping a Polaroid picture into an envelope.

 

It’s a black and white photo: a volleyball sitting on a hardwood floor. Neat and small handwriting adorns the ball.

 

_Osaka_

_McDonald’s_

_This Sunday, 1:00 a.m._

_Dress code: sweats and corgi socks_

 

xxiv _._

 

Naturally, Atsumu shows up in Keiji’s Fukurodani sweatshirt and socks with pugs because he couldn’t find corgis with a two-day prior notice.

 

Keiji, sitting patiently with two orders of large fries, smiles at Atsumu when he walks in.

 

And without proper greeting, Atsumu approaches Keiji at the bright red table and starts, “Look, Keiji, I’m sorry they’re not corgis, but this was the best I could do, and I had to go into _Forever21_ for these, so I think you should give me a pass.”

 

“Whatever,” Keiji shrugs, “you look cute.”

 

“Stop it.” Atsumu smiles and takes a handful of Keiji’s fries.

 

“Very attractive, the way you shove a sum of fries into your mouth and grin,” Keiji continues with sarcasm, but there’s sparkly admiration in his eyes to give him away.

 

Once Atsumu finishes chewing, he says, “Whatever, anyway, now that we’re dating, what does that mean we do differently from before?”

 

Ironically, Keiji hasn’t thought of this since they starting dating, so he’s tragically caught off guard.

 

“Don’t tell me you don’t know. Keiji, you’re, like, a genius, you’re supposed to know everything.”

 

So, cheeks flushed, Keiji answers, “Shut up.”

 

“Make me.”

 

Keiji’s first instinct is to shove fries into his boyfriend(?)’s mouth, but then he looks into Atsumu’s eyes, and they’re dark, and they’re gorgeous, and his lips are parted and inviting, and Keiji grabs Atsumu’s sweatshirt and pulls him close until the distance between them vanishes. Specifically, the distance between their lips vanishes.

 

It’s a short, closed-mouthed kiss, but _fuck_ , is it gratifying.

 

“Oh, I think I love you,” Atsumu says against Keiji’s lips.

 

Keiji, an awkward and emotional idiot, doesn’t answer and instead chooses to stare at Atsumu in awed stupor. As if cued by the flip of the switch, Keiji feels tears brimming in his eyes. “I love you. Why would you say that to me in public? I’m gonna cry. I’m crying. Oh my god, you’re awful.”

 

“Okay,” Atsumu reaches up to wipe Keiji’s tears, “but I’m awful when I don’t say I love you, and I’m awful when I love you. What do you want from me?”

 

“This.” Keiji gestures to nothing and everything at once. “This is fine.” Atsumu laces his fingers with Keiji under the table. “This is perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING <33333333


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